


Monster Generation

by tender_sushijima



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Apartment, Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Gen, Inspired by Sweet Home (TV), M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Monster Generation, Monsters, Multi, Neighbors to Friends to Allies, Nosebleeding - lots of them, Smoking, Survival Horror, Swearing, Thriller, Trauma, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_sushijima/pseuds/tender_sushijima
Summary: It's the generation of monsters.It's our generation.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Miya Atsumu, Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai, Hoshiumi Kourai & Bokuto Koutarou, Kageyama Tobio & Ushijima Wakatoshi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Monster Generation

**Author's Note:**

> I was onto something when it struck me that these two share one thing in common--the existence of monsters, whether figuratively or literally. Basically, I have a major crush on everyone from the Monster Generation, and I want them to suffer as much as they made me suffer for being so HOT.
> 
> Okay, enough talking. Enjoy reading~

Hinata wakes up with a foul taste in his mouth. He gags at the thought of what it could be, then pushes it out of his mind. The first thing to do when he’s regaining consciousness from a god-awful headache shouldn’t be to recall his last meal, but what _did_ he eat before passing out?

As if on cue, his hand knocks against an empty cup noodle and sends it tumbling across the floor. Right—he’d had a cup noodle for dinner and the taste didn’t sit well with him so he’d choked it out before he could swallow any, which means he didn’t eat anything. And which also means he’s lying on the choked-out noodles, most of which are fortunately within his left arm’s reach only.

Hinata wills himself to get off the floor, because though he’d like nothing better than to lie back down and maybe sleep for however long it takes for his body to stop feeling numb, it’s disgusting to lie next to his dinner. His only dinner, because he remembers not having stocked up the kitchen at all, only having brought that one cup noodle from his previous abode. Not that it matters anyway, since he’s not planning to live longer than a week. The calendar app on his phone will remind him in no less than 72 hours for him to end his life, so there’s no point putting off hunger.

Still, he wishes he’d at least get to go on a full stomach. Prisoners sentenced to death get the luxury of having their last meal be anything they want, so why must Hinata deprive himself of the same thing? He’d done nothing criminal, so he deserves it more than they do, right?

Hinata spits out whatever’s left of the noodles as he pushes himself upright, when he sees what he’d apparently passed out from. Now he’s mad—not only for having wasted his only food supply, but also apparently having the worst kind of nosebleed known to mankind. The realization that he’s in the presence of blood hits him belatedly as he registers the smell. That explains the sharp tang in his mouth and the lump in his throat, but crap, that’s one hell of a nosebleed. Hinata’s never bled this much in his life before, and he’s prone to getting bloody injuries. There’s a large patch of blood all over the front of his shirt and some even dripped off to the sides, pooling around him on the floor. He nearly slips on them as he props himself up on his elbows.

Okay, so now there are noodles _and_ blood on the floor, the latter of which he notices is too much to not be alarming. Hinata had gone out like a light and he can’t remember anything, and now he’s up surrounded by blood. It’s dark in his room, the only light being the automatic emergency lamp above the entrance of his apartment and the slit below the door leading to the hallway. He glances over a shoulder at the window, which is pitch black. It’s nighttime, but how _deep_ at night?

The noodles are cold; he can’t rely on them to count backwards and figure out how long he’s been out (it’s also gross, since his fingers are coated with his blood). The nauseating warmth on his chest and on the arm that’s been resting on the pool of blood can at least give him a little clue, and Hinata deduces he’d only been out for a couple of minutes, maybe an hour at most.

The right side of his jaw is aching, his teeth tight as if he’d been gnashing them. He spits out more blood and crawls towards a box against the wall, his makeshift table. He wipes his hand on a not-bloodied sleeve, as clean as he could before grabbing his phone. The brightness of the screen blinds him, but he blinks through it quickly to check the time. It’s twenty-four minutes past eleven, meaning he’d been out for about two hours. His vision is blurry and he rubs his eyes to no avail, but it doesn’t take him long to clear it out before he switches off his phone and slams it facedown. The memories surge into his mind and forcibly throw him back into the present, into the painful reality that brought him to this very moment. Hinata refuses to deal with it until he’s at least looking better than someone who lived through getting their throat slit.

The silence in his dingy one-bedroom apartment is both eerie and comforting, as it’s the complete opposite of the usual city drone that he’s used to, but it also reminds him that moths exist even in the dead of winter. It’s a good thing the lights aren’t turned on because the last thing Hinata wants on top of waking up to wasted dinner and a massive nosebleed is his room to be filled with the clicking of their wings. He groans when he hears ringing in his ears, a static so loud that it crackles in his bones. Guess he’s going to hear things like he’s underwater for a while.

By some leftover force in his body, he gets on his feet and trudges into the bathroom. The noodles can wait; he wants to do away with the blood first. He also hopes it’s nothing to be worried about, at least not in relation to the headache that’s starting to dissipate.

As his hands blindly roam across the wall in search of the light switch, Hinata scoffs at the shiver of panic running down his back. Why’s he getting strung-up about his health now? He’s going to off himself in two days anyway, and if the sudden emergence of a life-threatening condition gets to him first, then so be it. Either you run with the wind or let it blow you along.

Hinata’s lived a pretty good life until just recently, always safe and healthy, so it’s not unexpected of him to recoil at the sight that greets him in the mirror. There’s way too much blood on him for him to be able to stand upright; hell, there’s too much blood _out_ of his body that’s ejected through his nostrils. Is that even humanly possible? He should be dead, but by some morbid miracle, he isn’t, and he’s no longer woozy. At least not as woozy as abruptly making himself move and being blasted in the eyes by bright lights would be, but he can’t be too sure. After he'd recovered from the accident and been discharged from the hospital, he hasn’t gone back at all, save for the mandatory checkup appointments, so maybe it’s finally catching up to him. Whatever ‘it’ is, because Hinata frankly couldn’t care any lesser. His only concern now is to get the bloodied shirt off him, clean up the floor, and then sleep off the growls in his stomach. He may have moved into this run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of the city to kill himself, but he’s not a jerk to the next tenant who’ll move in after.

With a little effort, Hinata pulls the shirt off, unfortunately getting some blood on his hair and the rest of his face, and tosses it into the shower stall. He runs it under the water, though for what, he has no idea. No one in their right mind would want to wear a dead man’s shirt, much less when it’s soiled with their blood.

Hinata shakes his head and turns on the water in the sink, cupping his hands to splash his face. He’ll throw out the shirt on his next garbage disposal trip; he’s mostly hoping that it’ll come out more white than red so he could use it as a rag to clean up the blood puddle.

After scrubbing all the dried blood off his face, he ducks his head under the tap and lets the water run through his hair. It’s thick and stuck into oily clumps, so the cold water seeping through them and reaching his scalp is a pleasant feeling. Hinata sighs when his eardrums pop and he can hear normally again. When’s the last time he’d washed his hair? He’s always preferred warm water over cold when he showers, since he’s never got to have baths growing up. Besides, cold showers remind him too much of standing in the rain, his hands holding tightly onto his, while he balances on the balls of his feet to close the distance—

A bang on the door snaps him out of the memory and he pulls his head away, dripping water everywhere. He turns off the sink and the shower, ignoring the icy trails down his bare skin to turn in the direction of the only two doors in his apartment. Hinata always locks his doors, a lesson he’d learned the hard way during college when he started renting a room outside of campus grounds for the cheaper costs. It wasn’t all bad, but it wasn’t all good either. Even after moving here, Hinata’s made sure all his doors are well locked, even when he’s inside, but there’s a reason why the rent here is so illegally cheap. When Hinata first stepped into the compound, he’d suspected it had something to do with the low level of security when he’d met with the lethargic security guard. The one and only security guard of the whole sixteen-story building, who’s supposed to be at his post and definitely not mowing the lawn.

Hinata counts to ten, waiting for another bang, but it doesn’t come. His nerves are already electric from the sight he’d awoken to, so he’d be glad to not have something else pile atop his concerns. He shrugs it off as a drunk neighbor stumbling down the hall, because he knows there are alcoholics living here. There are many types of people living here.

He’s reaching for the tap again when the bang returns, louder and unmistakably intentional. Hinata’s only moved in yesterday morning so he hasn’t had the time to meet his neighbors (there’s no need to, either). He’s also never encountered drunk people before, not directly, but he knows that that’s not the sound a drunk person would do against a door. A three-inch, sturdy metallic door, the only barricade and guaranteed form of security which Hinata can trust.

Hinata puts on a clean shirt hanging behind the bathroom door and towels his hair as dry as possible, then tiptoes out of the bathroom. He has half the thought to turn off the light, but figures it’ll only aggravate the person banging on his door. There’s a small window in the bathroom that connects to the hallway, and if they see the light go off, they’ll know the person inside is awake and hears the banging. Except… why would they go for a unit whose occupant is still awake? Hinata’s aware he could just be overthinking, but his gut feeling had been uneasy the moment he submitted his deposit, and that’s even before he stepped foot in the compound. For all he knew, there could be frequent robberies and even murder sprees in here.

It’s close to midnight and the whole place is deathly silent, so breaking into a unit around this time is not a bad move, even though the heavy-duty doors prove otherwise. Maybe they target new tenants? Those who don’t know better? It must be such a common occurrence if they’re this daring, then, because the banging could be heard down the hallway, even reaching the units directly above and below. Hinata knows this because his unit is located at the very end of the hallway, next to the westside staircase, and he’s heard things echo clearly in there when he’d walked up them last night. It must be an unspoken rule among the residents; those who’ve lived here long enough know better than to poke their nose where it doesn’t belong, even at the expense of another person’s life.

The third bang catches his attention and he sees the door giving in a little. He’s running out of time. Hinata quickly grabs his phone and runs into the kitchen. If he’s lucky, the intruder will see the blood on the floor and be deterred from entering, saving Hinata from a deadly confrontation.

He quietly runs his fingers through the contents of his drawers and finds the sharpest kitchen knife. If he isn’t totally gripped by fear, he’d laugh at how valiant his efforts are to defend himself from the hands of death, but being murdered isn’t anywhere on his list of How Many Ways Can I Kill Myself. The last bit of dignity and respect that Hinata can muster for himself is to die on his own free will, not in cold blood at the hands of some stranger.

Hinata’s counting his inhales and exhales when he hears the next bang explode in the loud silence, this time with a metallic clink. The doorknob must be busted; Hinata regrets putting his naïve trust in the locks being able to hold themselves and forgoing padlocks. He grips the knife with both hands, trying his best to stabilize them, but he’s shaking so badly that he can even hear it in his breaths. He curses in his head. There’s no time left. There’s no option for flight, so fight it is.

Pressing his back the wall, Hinata peers over to look at the door. The doorknob is really busted—the lock mechanism is broken through and the door is slightly open, leaving only the lock chain keeping it linked to the door frame, the last line of defense shielding Hinata from the intruder. He glances down at the floor, familiarizing himself with where the blood puddle is so he won’t slip when he stabs the intruder.

Something pokes through the gap at the door and Hinata squints to make out its silhouette when it smashes through the chain and the door is kicked open. He rests his head against the wall, breathing out. It’s do or die.

The intruder steps in, their soft footsteps a complete 180 from their loud entrance. Hinata pushes back against the wall, praying his breath isn’t raggedly loud. He waits until the footsteps come closer, hears it pause where they’re probably looking at the blood, and then the lights turn on and he could see his intruder. Without a sound, he aims the knife at their side, hoping it’ll puncture a vital organ, so he could push them aside and make a run out of the door. It doesn’t happen that way.

He should’ve known when the lights suddenly turned on that there’s not one but two intruders, because the switch is located by the door. Hinata’s hands harden in the last few seconds and he’s confident in his aim, but his arms are shoved aside and the knife snatched out of his grip. Before he could get out a yell, the second intruder yanks him by his right arm, twists it around his back and pushes him against the wall. The air is forced out of his lungs as his cheek is crushed onto the granite surface, stinging like a thousand needles on his skin.

“Trying to kill us, kid?”

The (male) intruder’s voice is surprisingly (and offensively) stable, unfitting for the force of his assault. He sounds a little bored too, like he’s done this a thousand times and got the movements down pat.

Hinata is mostly paralyzed from shock, but he snaps into focus when he hears the knife clatter onto the floor. He squirms in protest, stopping only when he realizes it won’t benefit him. He’s tightly wedged between the wall and the man that there’s no room to even make a sound.

“Easy there, Omi. He’s only defending himself,” another male voice says, the first intruder. The knife scrapes against the floor as it’s being picked up and there’s shuffling from Hinata’s blind side.

Hinata’s ears ring at that voice, a wave of recognition washing through him before it’s replaced by terror. He forces open the eye that’s not squeezed onto the wall to look, and his stomach plummets at the familiar face.

“Oh, it’s you. The new kid who just moved in here,” the man cocks his head, eyes widening in delight as the knife he’s holding is trained between Hinata’s eyes.

Hinata knows this man; he’s the second person he met in the apartment after the security guard. He was on the rooftop at the same time as Hinata, going through two minutes of dance routine before losing his footing and falling onto his side. Hinata’s first reaction was to check if he’s okay, but he’d opted to scurry away down the stairs when the man had hollered at him, beckoning him to come over. He’d been the first person in ages to talk to Hinata without any obligation, someone who’d willingly interacted with him without strings attached. His radiant smile was a brief respite from the never-ending hostility, and his voice a pleasant change of atmosphere from the monotonous thrum of white noise Hinata’s been hearing for a while, though it’s full of the filthiest and most colorful profanities strung up in an unfamiliar regional dialect.

Hinata knows this man, but he also knows he won’t get out of this alive, not when he’d attempted to stab him in the name of self-defense (that is, before he belatedly realized that there’s two of them). In spite of that, his eyes still plead for mercy from him, from the man whose name he doesn’t even know of and whose life he nearly stole with the very knife that’ll steal his if he’s not careful.

“Are ya armed elsewhere?” he asks Hinata, too casually that it’s almost mocking.

Hinata starts to shake his head, not trusting his voice to be steady enough, but it’s impossible given his position. He manages a throaty ‘no’.

Neither of the men budge, as if his answer is unsatisfactory, but the one Hinata recognizes pats the other. “Omi, let him go. He’s just a kid,” he tells him.

“A kid who tried to kill us,” ‘Omi’ reminds begrudgingly, his vice grip on Hinata’s twisted arm tightening.

It hurts not just his jaw and throat, but also his compressed diaphragm as a cracked howl is forced out of him, the muscles in his arms cramping from the unnatural angle. Hinata’s eyes water at the pain and he starts to sob.

_“Omi.”_

Thankfully, he’s released, but only to be pushed down onto the floor next to the blood puddle. Hinata gasps for air, coughing on his uneven breaths as he curls into himself, putting pressure on his right arm to relieve the aches. A primal instinct in him is urging him to get back up, that he’s not out of danger yet, but his body is not listening to him. As he sucks in a breath, he decides that though he wants to die by his own means, the world is rarely that kind. If that’s how he’ll go, then so be it.

He doesn’t hear the man calling out to him until he’s flicked on the forehead and he cracks his eyes open. His vision is swimming, but he could spot that blond hair anywhere. Hinata squeezes his eyes shut again, the combination of the light above and the man’s hair too bright. If the excessive blood loss hadn’t gotten to him, it has now.

“Yo, I know we’re suspicious in your eyes right now, but I swear we ain’t tryna trespass into your property, kid,” the man says gently. “We just got back here when we saw the mess on our floor, and we thought there’s been a series of robbery throughout the entire place. But when we checked our apartment, nothing’s stolen. No one’s around for us to talk to, not even that damned security guard, and the doors all stayed shut. Ain’t nobody wanna come out and talk to us, not even after we knocked and pressed their buzzers like hell. We thought we’d come up one floor to check the rest of the place and holy shit does it look even worse, and yours caught our attention cause it’s the only one ‘alive’.”

The man air-quotes the last word and Hinata understands the implication. He’d turned on the bathroom light and started the shower and tap when they got to this floor, which is either the stupidest or greatest timing for Hinata, because if the man’s words have any ounce of truth to them, that means Hinata had barely escaped confronting the actual intruder. Their intervention had saved his skin, but that still doesn’t change the fact that they’d broken into his unit despite knowing he’s in.

 _They’d broken into my unit!_ Hinata’s eyes widen as it sinks fully into him. He scrambles across the floor, putting as much distance from the man as possible. They may have had a friendly conversation earlier that day, but looks can be deceiving. Hinata hasn’t met enough people since moving in and his door is broken down on his second night; they can’t be trusted just yet.

“Whoa, we’re not gonna loot now that all hell’s broken loose,” the man holds up his hands, a little chuckle escaping his lips. Hinata has to make an effort to not blatantly stare at the knife being held up loosely. “We thought this unit’s empty cause it’s clean, but the light turned on and we heard the water run. The buzzer’s broken and there ain’t any response from our knocking, so this bastard friend of mine decided he’ll kick down the door. I tried to stop him, but… he’s got a short temper, ya see?”

“You broke into my unit,” Hinata only croaks distrustfully. “How can I trust you?”

“I could ask the same to you. Why is there blood on the floor and on the shirt in the shower stall?” ‘Omi’ steps out of the bathroom, arms crossed as he stands menacingly over him. Hinata then spots the hammer he’s holding, the thing that broke through his door and would’ve been the cause of his demise if he had been successful in his self-defense.

At that, the man whom Hinata recognizes drops his smile, but he keeps his eyes on Hinata, waiting. Hinata swallows thickly. Whatever he tells them, they probably wouldn’t trust, especially more so if he tells them that he’d just woken up from two hours of a sudden blackout. He freezes, unsure of what to do or say. There’s no escape from this, even if the door is wide open before him. These two men are much bigger than him, one of whom had swiftly tackled the knife out of his hands and pinned him against the wall without sweat. Hinata doesn’t want to know what the one he’s sort of friendly with has hidden in him.

“Let’s not start on an argument, shall we?” the man eventually breaks the silence. He offers a hand towards Hinata with a smile, the same smile which had greeted him on the rooftop. “I’m Atsumu, Miya Atsumu. We met on the rooftop, remember? I told ya not to jump.” He jerks his head at his friend. “That’s Sakusa Kiyoomi, my roommate. We moved here last week, so we’re all on the same boat.”

There’s still no solid reason or proof for Hinata to not doubt them, but he doesn’t appear any more trustworthy than they do. It’s best to not get on their bad side when he could prevent it. He takes Miya’s hand, surprised by the firmness. “Hinata Shoyo,” he mumbles, nervously glancing at them.

Miya’s smile widens and Hinata’s momentarily at peace, his heart rate slowing considerably. He helps Hinata up, then brushes his knuckles against Hinata’s cheek. The gesture takes Hinata by surprise, the skin where Miya touched warming.

“I guess we should apologize for givin’ ya a scare,” Miya says, bowing. Sakusa bows too, though with less remorse. “I was against busting down your door but… given the situation we’re in, I don’t think we got time for formalities.”

The two of them exchange a look which Hinata could only describe as antsy. Considering how life-and-death their encounter had been, he thinks he should also be antsy. “What ‘situation’?” he asks.

Sakusa narrows his eyes. “We’re not telling you shit until you speak up, kid.”

Hinata nearly forgot that he’s got the short end of the stick and he clears his throat, a little more composed now. “I have a feeling you won’t believe me, but I’d passed out for two hours and laid here,” he points at the spot where the pool of blood is, “until a few minutes ago. When I woke up, there’s blood all over my shirt and on the floor. Apparently, I had a nosebleed so bad that it knocked me out cold.”

Sakusa raises a brow, his lips curled skeptically, but he doesn’t comment. Miya is nodding as he stares at the blood, but when Hinata follows his line of gaze, it’s actually at the noodles. His face burns in embarrassment. “I think it happened while I was having my dinner,” he provides sheepishly. Then, as if that’s not humiliating enough, his stomach chooses that time to growl.

A knowing grin spreads on Miya’s face and he lets out a breathy laugh. “I told ya to come have dinner with us, didn’t I? Look what happened,” he says amusedly, gesturing at the mess on the floor.

Hinata smiles, but it’s not because he wants to. Rejecting an invitation to having a meal together has never once crossed his mind; he _loves_ eating and enjoys it even more when it’s with people. But the thought of having a meal with the inviter whom he’d accidentally heard being extremely vocal in bed and his _friend_ who’s the reason behind the vocals is honestly too overwhelming. It’s not like Hinata’s a stranger to those vocals, but some things are hard to dispel from the mind once they make their presence known. The last thing he wants to think of when he’s feasting on delicious food is lewd mental images of the two people in front of him.

His face burns again, from secondhand embarrassment. He’s in a tight spot with the two not-so strangers standing in his apartment; he shouldn’t be envisioning nasty things with them as the stars.

“Anyway, I think we should get outta here while it’s still possible,” Miya suggests in a more serious tone. He holds out the knife to Hinata, blade facing away, and rests his other hand on Hinata’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Pack up your things, Shoyo. Stay with us tonight. I don’t wanna leave ya on your own like this.”

Miya doesn’t continue that, but Hinata could tell that ‘this’ encapsulates more than just the noodles and blood on the floor. The way Sakusa keeps glancing at the door is starting to give Hinata a bad case of jitters, and he would’ve started glancing too if not for Miya’s light shove to get him packing.

There’s nothing much for him to pack since his clothes are still stowed in his bag, so he makes a beeline for the bathroom and grabs the toilet essentials first. He’s about to ask what of leaving the apartment in this state, lingering his gaze on the bloodstained shirt sitting in the shower stall, when Sakusa tells him there’s no need to care for the small details. That brusque tone of his is doing nothing to help Hinata’s wild imaginations regarding what’s got them in such a hurry, but he doesn’t stop.

He gets to the makeshift table and throws his phone charger and wallet into his bag, when he pauses. He’d hesitated on doing it when he first settled into the apartment, since the reason why he came all the way here is because he wants to be as far away from it, but he’d caved in to his guilt and nostalgia and stuck the picture on the wall. Even now, as he’s frantically shoving what little of his belongings into his worn-out bag while there’s company waiting for him outside, Hinata hesitates. He can’t cling onto the past, not when he’d long decided that he’s going to cut his future short. And yet, he can’t seem to let it go, ripping the picture off the wall and stuffing it into the small front pocket.

He steps over the blood puddle and toes into his sneakers, pulling up the backs so his heels won’t press them down. Hinata hates it when he does them, so much so that all his shoes looked like slippers. A sharp zap shoots through his skull and he winces, nearly keeling over if Miya hadn’t caught him.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks concernedly.

Hinata brushes him off with a wave of a hand, but puts it down when he remembers he’s holding a knife. “Yeah.”

“Great, cause though I’d rather not rattle ya any more, some shit’s gone down on your floor. I’m guessing it happened while you were out, cause ain’t no fuckin’ way anyone’s gonna be sleeping through whatever happened out here.”

Hinata is horrified by that description, but it’s an understatement when he steps out to the hallway and sees it for himself. It’s like walking into a Halloween scare house, the section with a long and dark corridor full of fake blood and dismembered plastic mannequins, except it’s only a small part of the hallway that’s actually scary and it’s right next to Hinata’s unit. The door is wide open, the doorknob broken out of its slot and hanging by a single bolt, but the most alarming part is the deep dent on the top half of it, where the metal has completely caved outwards at the center. It looks as if it’d been pounded at from the inside with something the size of a boulder. He doesn’t get to dwell on the strangeness of that before his gaze drops and he notices the blood, a long trail of it coming out of the apartment and turning in the opposite direction of the hallway, away from Hinata’s unit. Then he spots more on the wall and window facing the door, bright red and dripping. Just blood, no bodies.

As the visual dawns on him, the overwhelming smell floods into his nostrils and churns his stomach upside down. He quickly slaps a hand over his mouth and tries to keep it in as he tears his eyes away. Miya puts a protective arm around him and gently pushes his head on his shoulder, patting his back. “Omi, let’s go. Omi!”

“Give me a moment. There has to be clue as to what’s going on.”

“The poor kid’s had a rough night as it is. We can come check it in the morning.”

Hinata hears a sigh. He lifts his head, hand clamped over his mouth like a mask. Sakusa is clearly annoyed at him, even though he’s looking away, while Miya offers him a smile, which looks to be more for himself than to comfort Hinata. “There’s a high chance we ain’t coming back here any time soon, Shoyo,” he says quietly, almost whispering. “Is there anything else ya might’ve forgotten?”

Hinata shakes his head. He wants to be away from the scene, away from the sharp coppery smell of blood even fresher than his. But most of all, he wants to be away from his own unit, where he could’ve died from whatever’s done the crap it’s done to his neighbor. “No, nothing,” he says quaveringly, his hand holding tight onto the knife.

Miya nods as Sakusa swings the door shut. “Okay. Let’s go.”

* * *

When the cartoonish fox clock strikes twelve-thirty and they’re sure that Shoyo’s well-fed and deep in slumber, Atsumu and Kiyoomi silently slip out of the room and head down to the landing of the staircase. They stick close to the wall by the window with the broken hinge, a vantage point where they can keep an equal eye out on the first and ground floors. It’s also where they know they won’t be heard, as the walls in Amaterasu Apartment are terrifyingly thin, so when a conversation is too urgent for them to grab a drink somewhere noisy, they’ll be there. Besides, it’s a good space to smoke at without having to leave the building, with a permanent ashtray of perfect height and zero people traversing this way. Atsumu had quickly made it his spot whenever they argue, which is ironically happening a lot more often despite the lack of privacy. Though, they’re at least considerate enough towards their neighbors to leave behind the yelling-and-throwing-things-around from when they lived apart. The walls are thinning enough with every sex they have; they’ll tear down their unit if they couldn’t control their anger.

A distant thunder rumbles and momentarily lights up the dark. Another reason why nobody uses the westside staircase—the lights haven’t been fixed at all, apparently for more than a year now. Atsumu deftly lights a cigarette and puffs out a smoke, then asks, “Ya mad at me?”

Kiyoomi glances at him in the dark, nose wrinkling at the familiar tobacco scent. He’s never approved of Atsumu’s smoking habit because of a multitude of health-related reasons, but it’s mostly because he hates tasting it when they kiss sometimes (Atsumu thinks it’ll make Kiyoomi appreciate kissing more when he makes an effort to not smoke as much; Kiyoomi does, but that doesn’t stop him from socking Atsumu every time he smashes their lips together and licks his tongue after inhaling smoke). Having the smell swirl in his lungs every other hour of the day is even worse now that they’re cohabiting, but Kiyoomi’s gotten used to it that it’s become frighteningly comforting. It’s like Atsumu’s personal brand of perfume, toxic yet addictive. “For what?”

“For letting him into our place. I know you suspect him of being the one who messed up 1302’s door.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head, letting hair fall over his eyes. “He’s suspicious, but he’s not at the top of my list,” he replies.

“Even with the blood and noodles?”

“Even with the blood and noodles. And you probably don’t suspect him at all, since you’re the one who’d insisted on breaking down his door.”

Atsumu hums and takes a long drag on the cigarette. “No, I do. He lives right next to 1302, yet conveniently ain’t heard shit? That’s fuckin’ sus, Omi. Even if that’s some monster level of passing out, ya can’t not wake up from that.” Another puff.

Kiyoomi breathes out a laugh, turning away from the smell. “Then why’d you let him stay over?”

“Cause he reminds me of Samu.”

The first droplets of rain tap against the window, before the rest of them rap violently on the windowpanes. They spray onto Kiyoomi’s right side as he turns to Atsumu, who’s staring off into the distance. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“No, don’t be. I brought it upon myself. It’s been years anyway; I should be over it.”

Kiyoomi purses his lips. "Why did you lie to him and say it was a robbery? We might encounter them again, and then what'll you do? Apologize to him?"

"Some things are better off unknown, Omi. If he knew the truth, he might just end up killing himself faster."

Though Kiyoomi doesn't agree, he keeps quiet and lets it go. He wants to reach out to Atsumu and pull him into an embrace, but he knows Atsumu will only brush him aside. Instead, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and finds his pocketknife, fiddling with them. It’s a distraction he’d picked up when he can’t touch Atsumu, because although he’s not keen on physical intimacy, he won’t hesitate to offer tactile comfort when the time calls for it. Now is not it, even if Atsumu looks like he’s about to fall apart. The faint outline of his shaky fingers is a dead giveaway, even if his trembling voice isn’t.

“Talk to me, Omi. Tell me why Shoyo’s not at the top of your suspect list,” Atsumu says huskily, resting his arm on the sill.

A sigh escapes Kiyoomi’s lips as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms. Atsumu has a lot of emotional baggages, but Kiyoomi is not his bellboy. “If we can trust his story about being unconscious for two hours, then it’s most likely that he’s neither 1101 nor 1302. The blood and noodles on his floor may point otherwise, but the timing is just not right,” Kiyoomi starts. “Let’s put aside 1101 for now and focus on 1302 first.”

He waits for a reaction. Atsumu nods, flicking ash out the window before turning to face Kiyoomi. “I’m all ears.”

God, that’s sexy. As much as Kiyoomi wants to snatch it out of his mouth and chuck it away, he’d be a fat liar if he denies how turned on he gets at the sight of Atsumu with a lit cigarette in his mouth, hands in his pockets as he leans against the wall. He promptly banishes his filthy thought with a clear of his throat. “Assuming that there’s someone in this building jacked up enough to create that dent on the door, they must be of an average adult height, probably several inches shy of six feet. The point of impact narrows it down further, and from what I can remember, they’re a tad bit shorter than us, but way taller than Shoyo.”

“There ain’t no bruises on his forehead too,” Atsumu adds.

Kiyoomi nods. “We can play devil’s advocate and consider that he could’ve grown a little taller, that he might have regenerative abilities and healed in the time he did that and returned to his unit, even washed off the blood too, but that doesn’t explain why the blood trail heads _away_ from his unit. The space around 1402 is squeaky clean, not a speck of blood to be seen, yet there’s a big splatter right in front of 1302’s door.” He pauses, taking a moment to recollect the details of the scene, when his eyebriws twitch in realization. “The shape of the dent was convex. It was pummeled at from the inside, like something wanted out.”

“Holy shit, and it was bleeding a waterfall as it got out. Omi, what the fuck could that be?”

“Nothing human, obviously.”

Atsumu curses under his breath. He takes the cigarette out and grabs a fistful of his hair, pulling at it for a couple of seconds before letting go. It’s his personalized version of the pinching tactic to check if this is reality, which Atsumu desperately wishes isn’t.

They’d pushed themselves too far tonight, a little beyond their usual alcohol capacity, that when they’d stumbled upon whatever was tearing into 1101’s box of delivered instant noodles, they genuinely thought their hallucinations had synchronized. That was, until they weren’t watching where they stepped and accidentally kicked an empty plastic bottle towards it, making it stop at the sound. Luckily, Kiyoomi’s fast reflexes are not hindered even with alcohol in his system, so they managed to take cover before they’re spotted. The distorted snarling combined with the slow shuffling on the floor getting closer was enough to sober them up, and they spoke with their eyes on what to do. Their safest bet was to sneak up the stairs, but both the booze and their fear had paralyzed them, rooting them to the floor and pinning them against the wall.

Just as they felt it closing in on them, the elevator dinged and the echoes of someone’s loud talking on the phone pierced through the silence. The snarling and shuffling halted momentarily before going the other way, fading as it followed their unlucky savior. Neither Kiyoomi nor Atsumu moved until a couple of minutes later, when they can no longer hear anything but their hammering hearts, and once they’ve checked that the coast was clear, they speedily crept into their apartment and moved in perfect unison. They took down the laundry they’d hung up and shoved clothes strewn about into drawers, cleared away surfaces and stored items into any space they could fit them, and packed up some necessities and supplies. As they scrambled around the apartment to make sure that nothing could make the creature they’d encountered potentially walk up to their door, they devised an escape plan should shit hit the fan. They’ll stay inside to compose themselves and sort out their survival quandary, then survey the floors above and below before deciding the next step to take.

“We could go find the security guard and alert him of that fucker. He’ll have to call the cops if we show him the state of that box in the hallway,” Atsumu had suggested, but when they got to the ground floor, there’s not a single soul to be seen. The small office where the security guard is normally posted at was empty, but the fact that the table lamp was still turned on meant he hasn’t taken a shuteye. He was yawning and fighting off sleep, but he was behind the table when they’d staggered past and headed for the stairs.

“What the fuck, it’s locked,” Kiyoomi said about the entrance that stood iron-still despite his pulls. “We just fucking walked in here.”

“We got back here around thirty minutes ago, Omi. And it’s almost midnight anyway,” Atsumu sighed and pried him off the glass doors. “How ‘bout the switch room? Maybe he’s in there tryna fix that.”

But it’s empty too. At this point, they didn’t think anything could be worse than being locked in with the snarling shit that’s prowling the hallways and a missing security guard who’s nowhere to be found, until they heard the pounding start above their heads. They ran for each other and ducked under a table, away from the door but keeping it within their view. As their hands found each other’s and held tighter with every thump, Atsumu had looked into Kiyoomi’s eyes and hoped it was just a sick joke, a group prank that all of Amaterasu’s oldest residents had come up with to test the new tenants’ tenacity to stay, but it took everything in him to not squeak at how painfully strong Kiyoomi’s grip was. It's enough of a reality check for Atsumu, and it's at that moment when he realized that the shithole they’ve called home for a week is turning into a hellhole by the minute.

Amidst the sizzling booze in their systems and the fear it’s numbed, they somehow found the balls to risk their lives by not only checking the source of the pounding after what felt like an eternity, but also saving Shoyo once Atsumu’s head cleared enough to remember that 1402 is his unit. It was a severely obvious lose-lose situation, because the chances of them attracting 1101 and 1302 towards them before getting Shoyo out was higher, and it would mean giving away their position even if they succeeded. Even now, they’re risking their lives by being outside and having a conversation about the kid sleeping in their apartment, all while they try to rationalize the possibilities of that kid being the reason why their lives are at an even higher risk.

Atsumu takes another long drag on the cigarette, letting the smoke linger in his throat long enough to make his eyes tear up. “It looked like a goblin, all hunchbacked and decaying. Is it a zombie? Fuck, those claws don’t look like anything an animal today could have.” He shakes his head, squashing the images. “I’m just glad that Shoyo is safe, both from 1302 and being 1302. I’ve taken quite a liking towards him, ya know?”

“I can’t believe you painted me as the bad guy,” Kiyoomi grumbles, to which Atsumu chuckles. “If he hangs around us longer, he’ll know I’m not the one with the short temper.”

“Shut up and fuckin’ tell me about 1101. What about Shoyo and 1101?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “It’s not possible either. Like I said with 1302, the sequence doesn’t add up. I don’t know where that poor guy’s unit is, but 1101 went the opposite way, towards the eastside. That’s over ten units away from here, not to mention an additional ten units towards Shoyo’s if 1101 walked up the eastside staircase. It would’ve also collided with 1302, assuming it landed on the second floor, which meant Shoyo wouldn’t make it into his apartment either.”

Atsumu hums absently. “But the blood could’ve belonged to 1101— to Shoyo. Maybe they did collide, Omi.”

“No, there was no sign of scuffling. I don’t know what the fuck created the blood on the wall, but the one on the floor was smooth, like something being dragged out. If they did clash with each other, there would’ve been a much messier blood trail. And I’d told you that 1402’s area is spotless, so it’s all the more impossible for Shoyo to be 1101.”

“Oh, right. I was hoping one of them would get taken out by the other, leaving one less fucker to kill.”

Kiyoomi shoots him a reproachful look. “You think you can kill those things?”

The look Atsumu shoots back at him is of pained offense, which in turn also offends him back. “You wanna just sit around and let ‘em kill ya instead?”

“Fuck off. We don’t even have a solid plan beyond saving Shoyo.”

“We do.” Atsumu’s eyes shine from the reflection of the lights from both floors, but also from fortified resolution. “We find a way out.”

“What?”

“Since our phones don’t have reception for some weird doomsday fuckin’ reasons, we take things into our own hands and save ourselves.” Atsumu takes a final drag before crushing the cigarette on the sill, putting out the flame prematurely.

Kiyoomi flinches; he recognizes what that means and he already doesn’t like where it’s going.

“There has to be an emergency exit that’s not locked using the system, one of those in-case-of-fire type exits, ya know? Come daylight, we can grab our shit, find that exit, and get the hell outta here with Shoyo. I don’t fuckin’ care if we gotta bust down another chain; my ass won’t stay in here for another night.” Atsumu then shakes his head, disagreeing with himself. He’s in his own world now, seated at a conference table with the other voice in his head. “No, why wait till daylight? We can start searching for it now. 1101 and 1302 didn’t come after us when we were banging on Shoyo’s door, and it doesn’t seem like they’re close enough to hear us. Which means we can sneak around without ‘em finding us yet, Omi.”

Kiyoomi blinks in stunned amazement. On most days, he’s the one who has to pull the weight of two people because Atsumu is an irresponsible jackass with a natural propensity for evasion, but on other days, Kiyoomi won’t even have to think for himself. The one to confess first may have been him, but the one to push him into confession was Atsumu. If that’s anything to go by, it’s that Atsumu is also a stubborn jackass, but he’s an initiative type of stubborn, and his endeavors rarely fail. Still, Kiyoomi won’t allow his aims to shoot too far up the sky.

“That’s only if they’re the only ones in the building, which we’re not even sure of. We thought 1101 was the only one, until we heard 1302.” Kiyoomi shudders at the endless possibilities. “Who knows how they got in here too? For all we know, there could be more that we’ve yet to see. We can’t be too safe.”

Kiyoomi’s analytical observations and logic about the world have often put Atsumu back on a humble chair, but in spite of the obvious red flags, he remains undeterred. Atsumu’s not even listening anymore.

“We’ll go to the cops once we’re out, and hopefully, our apartment doesn’t get looted until the whole building is deemed safe to enter and we get to move out,” Atsumu continues. “Either that’s the scenario we act on, or the world is fuckin’ endin’.”

The thought of an apocalypse flips Kiyoomi’s insides, but he smiles at the sentiment. Atsumu was a star student back in the academy; the instructors always joked that he’s Dionysus reincarnated, and it’s not hard to see why. There’s something electric and intense about his charisma, whether channeled into roles or when he’s simply being himself. Atsumu throws himself so willingly into things that he’s always toeing the thin line separating being dauntless and reckless, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care. “The world won’t end yet, Atsu. Not when we’re still together.”

The smile that blooms on Atsumu’s face is Kiyoomi’s favorite—cocky but flushed. Just how he likes him. “Then the world will never end.”

* * *

Tobio closes his eyes when the wind picks up, feeling it brush through his fringe and tickle his forehead. He breathes in the cold air, holds it in for a few seconds, then exhales through his mouth. Before the rain starts and he gets rainwater all over the floor, he shuts the window with a disappointed sigh. The temperature is dropping day by day and his nose is starting to feel as if it’d fallen off, but with how humid the apartment is, Tobio doubts he’ll even shiver if he opens all three windows. It would help better ventilate the small box of a living space too, but Ushiwaka had said no, insisting that bugs would fly in and disrupt his peaceful sleep. Tobio had waited until he ducked into the kitchen before rolling his eyes; his cousin can be overly dramatic sometimes.

Despite that, Tobio is nothing short of grateful for his hospitality. There’s no reason for Ushiwaka to be letting anyone into his place in the middle of the night, not even his cousin, much less with the way that their meeting was comparable to a hitchhiker’s nightmare. Ushiwaka had long retired from the track scene, but he actively retains the regime of going running thirty minutes before and after bedtime. Why he still does that when the apartment he’d moved into looks haunted, Tobio doesn’t know and probably won’t understand. He just knows that Ushiwaka has the heart of a saint and would’ve gotten himself stupidly murdered had it not been Tobio whom he’d run into.

Rather than worrying about bugs, Tobio thinks he should start worrying about innocently inviting to be killed in cold blood, but he doesn’t have the heart to say it when Ushiwaka returns from the kitchen and places two mugs of coffee on the dining table. Both of which have overly adorable and colorful animal designs, a stark contrast next to his monochrome tracksuit.

“I would have served you tea, like I promised, but I haven’t gone on a food run and the mini market on the ground floor had closed at nine,” he says as they both sit across each other. He picks up his mug, tiny in his two large hands, and takes a dainty sip. “ _Shi_ — It’s too hot. Don’t drink it yet.”

Tobio can’t help but laugh. Things may have changed for them individually in the time that they’re apart, but Ushiwaka still can’t estimate the ratio of hot water to room temperature. He’s also still refraining from cursing, which is quite endearing. “Thank you, Ushiwaka-san,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

Tobio wraps his hands around the mug and relishes in the porcelain’s warmth. He may not enjoy the stuffy air of Ushiwaka’s apartment, but he had been outside in the cold for a couple of hours. His thumb traces the outline of a cat’s whiskers and he smiles.

“Care to tell me why you’re running away?” Ushiwaka’s question comes several beats later.

Tobio groans. “Not this again… I told you—I’m not running away. I’m just blowing off steam by going on a night run. You should know that better than anyone else, since you were just doing it too.”

“Is it a new style of training where you carry a bag while you run?”

Tobio sighs and hangs his head. He should’ve known better than to argue with his cousin, who could always tell whenever he’s upset based on his choice of dairy drinks. “I was thinking of spending the night away from home since Miwa is out of town, but I got lost and ended up here,” he admits reluctantly. “And before you mention GPS, I broke my phone several days ago while running. I haven’t gotten around to buying a new one yet.”

One of Ushiwaka’s best traits also happens to be one of his worst, which is that no matter what happens, there’s no way to tell what’s possibly on his mind. Tobio wishes there’s at least a telltale sign that indicates displease, anything in response to his own carelessness, but Ushiwaka’s as flat as a board. Tobio doesn’t consider the purse of his lips to mean anything because years of watching him curiously has established that as mild puzzlement, which Ushiwaka is most of the time, if not all.

Tobio’s also used to Ushiwaka paying attention to everything else besides the main point: “Miwa’s out of town?”

He nods. “Yeah, she said she’s staying over at a friend’s tonight.”

Something about the way Ushiwaka’s eyebrows crook unsettles Tobio, but it disappears and Ushiwaka’s usual stoic expression returns. “I see. Well, even if you hadn’t come out by yourself, she would’ve sent you to me so I could take care of you.”

Tobio’s lips pucker in chagrin. “Why are you two treating me like I’m some sort of pet you could pass back and forth? I can take care of myself.”

“She told me you nearly burned eggs while cooking dinner.”

“It was just that _one time_. I was thinking of how to chop the vegetables that I forgot to flip the eggs in time.”

“All the more reason for her to put you under my care.”

“Ushiwaka-san!” Tobio huffs indignantly. The heat of the mug is starting to burn his palms and he peels his hands off, pressing them on his thighs for a change.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Ushiwaka prompts, calm as ever.

“I’m not—” Tobio stops himself, chewing on his lower lip anxiously. He knows Ushiwaka won’t press him further for an answer if he denies him from any one last time, but Tobio doesn’t think he can keep denying it either. Tobio can never give Ushiwaka the cold shoulder.

When his and Miwa’s grandfather died, they were taken in by the Ushijima’s and their only child, Ushijima Wakatoshi, became Tobio’s de facto older brother. He does look up to Miwa, but it’s different having an older sibling of the same gender. Tobio looks up to Ushiwaka in every way possible, following his footsteps and mimicking his actions throughout their adolescent years. He would even go as far as to say that Ushiwaka is his idol, because he fights back against his own family to walk his own path, which Tobio and Miwa should have more leeway to do but didn’t. In that way, he figured he would have withheld a slight bit of envy towards his cousin, and maybe he’s only realizing it now as they’re sitting in front of each other. People have said that they’re both cut from the same cloth and it had delighted Tobio whenever he heard that, but like the lifestyle he’d been forced to adopt, he’d begun to despise being put on the same pedestal as Ushiwaka.

Tobio wants to tell Ushiwaka everything, but he can’t. He doesn’t know how to relay his problems to the least problematic person he’s ever known, and he doesn’t think he would understand either. How Ushiwaka stays at peace despite having defied his mother’s traditional future plans for him and cut off almost everyone he’s known to be happy in his own way is through mastering the art of three—three days to work through sorrow, three hours to solve a problem, and three minutes to manage anger. Tobio’s tried many times in the past to do it like Ushiwaka does, but he has his limits. He’s not Ushiwaka; he’ll never be like Ushiwaka no matter how faithful his copying is.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Ushiwaka says, breaking Tobio out of his thoughts. “My job is to make sure that you’re safe and not dead in a ditch.”

Tobio’s still stuck in his dilemma, but his lips twist into an ironic smirk. “Who gave that job to you? Miwa?” he asks jokingly.

“I gave it to myself since you’re not going to do it well.”

“Sure thing, Ushiwaka-san.”

And he does drop it; Ushiwaka doesn’t say anything else, leaving Tobio alone to try his coffee again. From the sloppy downplay of his wince, Tobio could tell it’s still too hot, but when he takes a sip, it’s of the right temperature. Either Ushiwaka’s got a cat’s tongue or Tobio’s colder hands have cooled it considerably.

“I heard your knee’s injured. How are you feeling?” Ushiwaka asks, which makes Tobio look up with a raised eyebrow.

“Did Miwa tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you two gossip about me?”

“You’re not my only cousin, and that’s not gossiping. She’s concerned about you and wants some advice.”

Tobio pouts. “Fine, but at least I don’t rat her out to you when she drove all the way to her ex’s place to catch him in the act of cheating and break up with him on the spot.”

“She did what?”

“I think she even has pictures on her phone. Now and then, she gets food and clothes delivered at her bidding for free.”

Tobio will admit with shame that he thinks of Ushiwaka as his sibling more than he does Miwa, but he’s aware of how important she is in his life. They were under the care of their father’s extended family, yet Miwa still took on three roles—a guardian, a teacher, and a friend. There are times when Tobio openly prefers Ushiwaka to her, but while the former sporadically appears in his life to bestow him with inspiration and wisdom, Miwa’s a permanent presence. Rain or shine, she’s the one he goes to when he has girl problems, the one he hides from when he ironed a hole onto her favorite shirt, the one he can lean on when the weight of the world is dragging him down. All in all, the only person Tobio trusts in this world more than Ushiwaka is Miwa, because behind her petty lectures and nags, she always puts him first and foremost. Tobio wouldn’t think twice to put his life in her hands because she would always have his back, even when she’s acting out of ordinary and frankly starting to scare him.

Tobio’s still hesitant to bring it up with Ushiwaka, but better now than never. He doesn’t want to think of how Miwa would react when she returns home to find him missing. “Ushiwaka-san, when was the last time you spoke to Miwa?”

“Two weeks ago, to send me pictures of the burnt eggs. Why are you asking?”

Tobio sighs defeatedly, but disregards it. “I think something’s bothering her. She’s acting a bit weird, zoning out when I talk to her or forgetting things after deciding to do them. She’s even snapped at me over small things; I feel like I’m treading on a field of mines when I’m around her. I chalked it up to her period, but she’s never that emotionally disturbed before.” Tobio pauses, unsure of how to continue, but Ushiwaka’s level gaze convinces him to keep going. “She’s also been having a lot of nosebleeds, which may be due to overworking, but the amount of blood is worrying me. It doesn’t just gush out like turning on the tap; it looks like one liter of bottle’s worth in one go.”

There’s that strange crook of Ushiwaka’s eyebrows again. He’s normally minimal with the way he facially expresses himself, so Tobio knows he’s not overreacting by himself. “Nosebleeds?” he echoes, and Tobio nods. “How long has it been since it started?”

“About two weeks prior? I think she’s had about four nosebleeds.” The slow nodding from Ushiwaka doesn’t do much to ease Tobio’s nerves. “Ushiwaka-san, did she tell you about it? The nosebleeds?”

“No, but she did tell me that she’s feeling under the weather and that she might want you to stay with me until she gets to the bottom of it.”

Tobio sits upright, eyes widened. “She said she’s sick? She didn’t tell me anything.”

“She didn’t want you to worry, so she’s been going to get herself checked. You do notice her going in and out a lot, don’t you?”

Tobio nods. “Yeah. I thought it’s for work purposes, so I didn’t pry too much… But what could it be, Ushiwaka-san? Did she tell you what she’s sick with?”

Ushiwaka shakes his head. “No, but based on what you told me, they might be symptoms of something I’ve seen making rounds on the internet,” he says, fixing his gaze on his mug. His eyebrows are furrowed, which is something to note. “I just doubt it’s what I think it is, because of its unrealistic nature.”

Tobio definitely should’ve gotten around to buying a new phone right after dropping it on his run, or at least found a way to reach out to Ushiwaka after Miwa’s first nosebleed. Nothing in his life could’ve prepared him for when her nose started pouring blood all over the sink, thick and rapid despite both her hands cupped over it. The bizarreness of the occurrence had taken him by shock and he’s petrified, until he pulled himself together to grab her some tissues and an ice pack. The severity of that sight didn’t sink in until she’s more or less recovered and reassured him that she’s fine, that she’s just tired, but he should’ve thought of contacting Ushiwaka when he felt a seed of anxiety bury itself in him. He should’ve known that Ushiwaka could probably find out the reason for Miwa’s deteriorating condition faster and more easily, since the internet is where he thrives; instead, he chose to take it upon himself and look for it.

On hindsight, Miwa would’ve ended up sending him to Ushiwaka anyway; it’s just a matter of when. Now, he’s in the presence of someone who could have a clue as to what’s wrong with his sister, but he suddenly doesn’t want to know the answer. The clear disturbance on Ushiwaka’s face is cooking up all sorts of possibilities, none of which are going to rid him of his worries despite finally having an answer. Even so, Tobio keeps his determination afloat as nothing is worse than being left in the dark. He’s not going to lose another family member.

Thankfully, Ushiwaka senses that through his hardened countenance and Tobio is spared from asking. “I don’t think I should tell you because it sounds like a prank to scare people, but if you insist…”

“Please, Ushiwaka-san. I want to know what’s wrong with Miwa.”

Tobio’s filled his head with one too many unnecessary information and driven himself exhausted, but none of what he’s read is what Ushiwaka’s telling him. Like the nosebleed, none of them prepared him for what comes out of Ushiwaka’s mouth: “She’s cursed.”

Tobio’s hands freeze, in movement and temperature. He thinks his heart’s stopped beating too. “What?” he says breathlessly.

Ushiwaka doesn’t blink as he rephrases himself. “I believe she’s cursed, but take it with a grain of salt. All that you told me are symptoms I’ve read, but there have been no confirmed cases. It’s only a speculation, Tobio, so don’t believe what I said or what you see.”

He nods stiffly. “Okay, I won’t,” he says, though the blank face and monotone contradict the statement.

Ushiwaka lets out a sigh. “I’ll send her a message. With a little prodding, she might let us know a bit more of what’s been happening in her checkups. For now, go get some rest. We’ll get you a new phone tomorrow.”

Tobio nods again, face unchanging, and Ushiwaka lets him be. He doesn’t know how bad Miwa’s symptoms are since he wasn't there to see it for himself, but Tobio never blows things out of proportion. Miwa’s often joked about how her own brother resembles Ushiwaka more than he does her, and Ushiwaka takes pride in that, although he doesn’t think his straightforward honesty is laudable. He’s always been on his own from birth and the expectations of his family only got heavier after his parents’ divorce. Ushiwaka’s never liked his mother’s side of the family and he did hate his father for leaving him, but that’s all in the past now. Presently, he has Tobio and Miwa as family and he wants to assist them as best as he could.

Though a part of him wants to sit with Tobio and keep him company, Ushiwaka gets up and grabs his phone from the coffee table. He starts to type a message to Miwa, asking her if she’s available for a phone call tomorrow, when he notices the ‘no service’ symbol on the top of the screen. He frowns. Before moving in, he’s made sure to check for the strength of the signal, and it’s never gone below three bars. In fact, it’s the highest around this time of the night, so it puzzles him when it doesn’t change after he reboots.

Ushiwaka’s about to ask Tobio if his phone has reception when he remembers that it’s broken and nonexistent, so he pockets his and returns to the dining table. “I can’t text her because my phone has no signal, but I promise to do it first thing when I wake up,” he says to Tobio. “Are you going to sleep yet?”

Tobio doesn’t look like he’s recovered from the news, but at least he’s reacting. “Do you think I can after you served me coffee?”

“I don’t know, can you? Because I can.”

Ushiwaka smiles when Tobio rolls his eyes. “I think I’ll finish this first before heading to sleep. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Okay, then I’ll go prepare the bed for you.”

With a lighter heart, Ushiwaka heads to the built-in cupboard to retrieve another blanket and two extra pillows, when the power goes out. The entire room submerges into total darkness and the lights die with a clink; Ushiwaka only needs a few seconds to adjust to it, as it’s not uncommon for a blackout to strike, but he can’t do that this time. Tobio is gravely afraid of the dark, a fear developed from when he was locked inside the garden shed as punishment for ‘influencing’ Ushiwaka to overspend his free time. It’s one of the reasons that led Ushiwaka to defy his mother, and another for why he chose to distance himself from Tobio.

His own fear from leaving Tobio alone grips him and he scurries back to the dining table, gently laying a hand on his cousin’s shoulder to not frighten him. “Tobio, I’m right here,” he says softly.

It’s not even ten seconds since the lights went out, but Tobio is trembling under his touch. Ushiwaka berates the timing of the blackout as he reaches for his hand, squeezing lightly. He’d been informed by the agent prior to moving in that the generators in this building are old and prone to cut out at times, most frequently at night, so he’s made sure to always keep a supply of candles and matches. Unfortunately, they’re kept in a drawer in the kitchen, and while it’s not far given the one room floor plan, he doesn’t want to pull Tobio along into the darker corners.

He kneels beside the chair, hands on Tobio’s elbows. “Tobio? Stay with me,” he calls, turning him so they would face each other. “I’m sorry for this. I should’ve warned you about it first, that this regularly happens. I’m going to light some candles and put them around so it won’t be completely dark, okay?”

From the weak light shining in through the windows, Ushiwaka sees the glazed look in his eyes. They’re wide, so wide and terrified, and Ushiwaka hates that he has to see them again, hates even the thought of leaving him on his own for a while. Tobio nods, once and dazedly, and Ushiwaka helps him up.

“While I do that, you can stand by the window and look outside,” he continues, pressing Tobio’s mug into his hands. “I won’t be too long.”

Now that the hum of electricity is gone, Ushiwaka registers the sound of rain. No wonder it’s still cool after Tobio had closed the window. He guides Tobio towards it, where he has to force himself to let go, and then hurries to the kitchen. Hopefully the sound of the rain would distract Tobio.

In his haste, Ushiwaka nearly drops the candles and burns his fingers as he lights them, but he’s stable enough to not accidentally turn his apartment into a furnace. Tobio’s first comment upon stepping into the apartment was the heat, and he’d begged desperately to open the window for a while to dry his sweat. Ushiwaka wanted to tell him that that’s how people catch colds, but seeing the content look on his face, he decided to indulge in his request. It’s been months since they saw each other and Ushiwaka misses him dearly. There wasn’t a day that passed without his finger hovering over the call button next to Tobio’s name, and now that he’s here, he doesn’t want a single moment to be wasted where he’s remotely unhappy.

Once he’s adequately lit the apartment, he steps over to the window and lightly touches Tobio’s arm, hoping he’s not too shaky himself. “Tobio, I’m back. How are you feeling?” he quietly inquires.

“I’m okay. Thank you, Ushiwaka-san.”

The smile does assuage Ushiwaka’s worry and he smiles too. “I’m sorry again that this happened.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tobio shakes his head. His eyes flit towards the window with slight confusion. “I have one question, though.”

“What is it?”

“I’m aware that your apartment’s very strange in appearance and features, but are the employees a little weird too?”

Ushiwaka blinks. “I’ll admit that the security guard is quite the eccentric, but he’s the only one I know to directly serve the apartment. The ones who run the shops on the ground floor are the older residents. Why do you say so?”

There’s a flash of apprehension on Tobio’s face. “I don’t mean to question your decision to move here, but does your gardener clear the lawn this late? It’s even raining, so unless there’s an emergency, he’s stupid for carrying out his job in this weather.”

Ushiwaka steps closer to the window to find said ‘gardener’. He’s acquainted with the security guard to know that he not only mans the entry and exit points and monitors the surveillance system, but also occasionally mows the lawn every few weeks. The owner of the building refuses to hire another employee, stating that the security guard could put more time into maintaining the lawn than napping. It’s something Ushiwaka’s always sympathized with him for because he’s already overexerting himself, but Ushiwaka’s never seen him outside after sunset.

Living on the eleventh floor does provide him with a brilliant view of the sky and the city, but it comes with its own limitations. It’s impossible to see right down to the bottom, and what with the rain dotting most of the window, he doesn’t see anything at first. A movement catches him then; he thinks it’s just the raindrops racing downwards and is about to say so, when Tobio points.

“There, do you see him?”

Ushiwaka does, after a hard squint of his eyes, and he recognizes the uniform. It _is_ the security guard and he _is_ mowing the lawn with his weed whacker while the rain beats down on him. No matter what emergency it could be, Ushiwaka can’t think of any reason why he would be out there in the cold. But that’s not what he focuses on. There’s something off about the security guard’s gait—his legs don't appear to bend, reducing his movement to a mechanical imitation of puppetry as he swings the weed whacker in a semicircle in front of him.

“Does he?” Tobio asks again.

The rickety motion is disturbing indeed, but that’s not the worst part. When the security guard nears the end of the lawn, Ushiwaka expects him to turn around and avoid the pile of bricks stacked at the corner. They’d both discussed about what those bricks could be for and the security guard had told him of his plans to move them elsewhere since they’re in the way of his lawnmowing. Which means that even if the rain and the darkness hinder the security guard’s vision, he would remember where they are, but to Ushiwaka’s confusion, he walks straight towards them. One moment, the weed whacker is spewing cut grass, and the next, it’s exploding the bricks into chunks.

Tobio’s free hand lands on Ushiwaka’s arm, seizing his sleeve. They both jump, exchanging a quick glance to reaffirm the reality of what they’re seeing. Some of the chunks fly as high up as three floors where they hear the sound of glass shattering, while others shoot into multiple directions and either land randomly or smack against walls.

“That’s the security guard. He trims the lawn too, but never this late,” Ushiwaka replies belatedly. His mouth is agape as he thinks of something to say, but the image of the supposedly plastic weed whacker slicing into cement bricks repeats in his head. Something heavy settles in his stomach and makes him frown. “Let’s call it a night, Tobio. We must be really tired—”

A loud thud cuts him off. It’s muffled and faraway, but there’s no mistaking the sound. Another one comes, closer, and a third, even closer, maybe on the floor below them or even down the hallway.

Tobio’s eyes are wide again and Ushiwaka mirrors them. It’s not the time to be funny, but he thinks they both need a little laugh: “It’s a good thing we both had coffee, don’t you think?”

* * *

Of all the ways he could end the Monday blues, it’s soaked down to the bones from being under the beating rain and locked out of his own apartment building. Though, on the bright side, he’s not miserably alone. Bokuto Koutarou may be too boisterous for his liking, but Hoshiumi’s choices for friends have never been wide. Besides, the normally bubbly guy can be serious when he needs to, which now is ironically the best time for it.

“Isn’t there any other entrance besides the main one? Like an emergency side door for a fire escape?” Bokuto asks in a whisper, nudging Hoshiumi. “Do you know any?”

Hoshiumi scowls at the rather aggressive elbowing. There’s no need to be excessively strong, not when they’re both pressed close together on their sides, trying to hide behind a bush next to the storehouse. What little protection that the roof can provide is useless, because it trickles water steadily down next to them. Hoshiumi begrudgingly scoots closer to Bokuto, fighting back a sneeze. “Not that I know of,” he shakes his head.

Bokuto nods, his thick eyebrows pulled taut to the center in concentration. His wide eyes scan the empty street before them, shrouded in darkness except for the raindrops that gleam like snow from the streetlights’ reflection. The normally dry and pothole-smattered tarmac street that should be wet and stained dark from the blood of the woman who lays several feet across their hiding spot, but is only wet.

Hoshiumi sinks against the wall, pressing his nose into the crook of his elbow. If he dwells on it for too long, his brain will conjure up the smell of blood and send it to his nasal cavity. He brushes away Bokuto’s concern, nodding when he asks if he’s alright. Hoshiumi’s far from alright—even for all the bad luck he keeps pinning on himself, this is just too much. If they hadn’t suggested to get something from the storehouse to break open the entrance, that lady would still be alive, but if they hadn’t done so and moved away from the entrance, all three of them would be dead. Something rises up in his throat and he swallows mouthfuls of air to keep it down.

Bokuto doesn’t comment on it. “Anyway, we have to find a way to get in. If the thing that attacked the lady doesn’t find us, we’ll die of hypothermia here,” he says, and Hoshiumi nods weakly in agreement. “Hey, I see somewhere we can get in through.”

He’s pointing at a dumpster next to the outdoor staircase when Hoshiumi’s mustered the strength to look, and without an exchange, he knows what Bokuto’s thinking of. They slowly get to their feet, eyes wildly looking around even though they don’t know what they’re looking for.

Another reason why it’s not so bad being stuck with Bokuto in this predicament is because he can really hold his liquor, as now is quite possibly the worst time to be intoxicated, with one slip of the foot equating instant death. Hoshiumi likes to think that he can outdrink most people, but Bokuto was about to pour himself a seventh shot when his vision’s blurring. Mondays are always brutal because that’s when Hoshiumi has to face the piles of work he’d procrastinated last week on top of the new ones coming in hot into his email, and he would’ve turned down Bokuto’s invitation had he not seen that new text message pop up on his lockscreen.

Hoshiumi’s phone burns in his pocket from its need for his attention. That jerk can wait another hour, surely, if he’s able to take over a week to get back to him after their last meeting.

He steels himself and takes in a deep breath. At the exhale, he turns to Bokuto, who’s poised to run, and nods. “The tree first. On three?”

“Yeah.”

Their footsteps match in tandem with Hoshiumi’s counts, and with the blessing of the thrashing rain, they’re able to run for the tree and slide right behind it before the thing could spot them from wherever it’s hiding and impale them both in one thrust.

“Oh my god, I was waiting for it to come,” Bokuto gasps shakily, his chest heaving rapidly against Hoshiumi’s cheek.

In normal situations, Hoshiumi would forcibly remove Bokuto’s arm from his waist, but this is not it. The tree trunk is one step towards safety but three steps back to danger; if they even try to move away from each other, they’ll be completely visible. Hoshiumi huddles closer for good measure, sighing in relief at the warmth.

“You know, there’s no need to be shy if you like hugs, Hoshi. I’m always glad to give you whenever you want them.”

“Shut up and watch my back.”

Hoshiumi’s cheeks warm. As lucky as he may be to have Bokuto as his temporary partner, he loathes the fact that he does like hugs and that he’s actually been wondering how good of a hugger Bokuto could be. For someone over six feet one and with the upper body built of a bodybuilder, Bokuto sure sucks at looking as intimidating. Part of it could be blamed on his overall friendly nature, and the other part on his childlike arrogance. It’s not even the bad kind of arrogant, more like an overachiever kid proudly showing off a drawing they made. Bokuto has the spirit of a child in a man’s body. Hoshiumi just wishes he isn’t enjoying this as much as he should be, given why they’re that way in the first place. He bites down on his lips hard to distract himself from the dead body lying even closer to their feet now.

“It’s clear. I think it’s gone,” Bokuto says, his chest rumbling from the vocalization. It’s also firm under the fleece sweater, and Hoshiumi’s never wished for personal space so desperately until then. “What about you?”

“Clear.”

“Okay. So what do we do now? Run for it or wait?”

Hoshiumi lifts his head and looks around, then makes the mistake of looking up. “Damn, don’t look at me like!” he hisses, flaring up from anger and embarrassment.

“Then how am I supposed to look at you?!”

“Ugh, whatever!” Hoshiumi looks around again to avoid Bokuto’s eyes. “It looks safe enough to run.”

“Are you sure? I don’t like that it’s suddenly missing. What if it’s waiting for us to be out in the open again? What if we can’t climb over or it catches us before we can get away?”

“Would you rather stay here than escape?”

One thing that’s neither good nor bad about Bokuto is the speed of his mind flipflopping from one extreme to the other. Hoshiumi’s only known him for three months, but he feels as if they’d known each other way longer with how freely Bokuto shares about himself. Within their first week of acquaintanceship as floormates, Hoshiumi knows that his occupation is a personal trainer, that his favorite food is yakiniku, and that his hobby is playing the guitar. The last one he would’ve eventually learned on his own anyway, because he’s heard it a couple of times at night, when his apartment’s quiet enough for him to remember that the walls are thin and that sounds travel far. The rest of Bokuto’s personal fun facts and history came in one by one as they crossed paths in the lobby, when they come out to smoke at the staircase, and on the late nights they spend drinking in either of their apartments or in rowdy bars. All of them have one thing in common, and that is as soon as Bokuto lets slip of them, he immediately stops himself from saying more and shuts his mouth, like he’d just realized how much he’d said. If high school Hoshiumi had met this Bokuto, he’d dislike him for his indecisiveness, but high school Hoshiumi would also dislike his present self.

He turns away. “Come on. We just need to get on top of the dumpster and climb onto the staircase. It shouldn’t be too hard,” he untangles their arms and steps back. The cold of the rain spikes up with the space between them and Hoshiumi draws his hood higher. The dread of seeing the thing doesn’t seem as severe now, not when escape is possible.

Bokuto blinks, then nods. His normally obnoxious spiky hair is wet and hangs off his head like silver icicles as droplets of water fly around him. “Right. That’s the plan.”

Perhaps their misfortune has run out, because they successfully get on the tall, slippery dumpster in near darkness and vault over the staircase’s rough and rusted railing without seeing the thing again. There’s still a long way up to the eighth floor before they’re totally safe, but Hoshiumi’s so exhausted that he’s content with laying down and sleeping there. If not for Bokuto holding onto him, he would've collapsed.

“Hey, are you okay, Hoshi? We have to keep going," he shakes Hoshiumi. "Crap, you’re bleeding! Did you get cut?”

Hoshiumi looks down at his upturned palms and sees a long gash down his left one. It’s dark with blood and only stings once he realizes it. “What do you think, genius?” he scoffs haggardly in reply. After watching someone get stabbed by a tentacle-like appendage and their innards sucked dry, having his skin sliced through by corrosive metal doesn’t seem half as bad. His high school self would hate him a lot.

It’s even darker and more silent inside the building when they push past the heavy door, save for the faint glow and buzz of the emergency signs down the hallway. The eerie contrast would’ve been more unnerving had they not just escaped potential mortality. They don’t have to say it out loud to put two and two together, to figure out that whatever’s going on outside is probably affecting the inside. A cold finger trails down Hoshiumi’s back as another niggles at his mind, feeding him thoughts of the building not being any safer than outside it.

“Maybe it’s a good thing that the entrance is locked,” Bokuto says just as the words form in Hoshiumi’s mind. “We need to treat your hand. I’ve got first-aid at my place.”

“So do I. You can just drop me off at mine.”

“What? No way! You’re hurt! I’m not leaving you alone.”

Hoshiumi sighs. Bokuto can be as unwavering as much as he’s indecisive, and he knows at which point that protesting becomes futile. “Just go to my place. It’s closer.”

Several minutes ago, Hoshiumi had wished they’d be inside and warm, but with the blackout, he wishes there’s a little more breeze inside the apartment. The ventilation system at his unit has never worked accordingly and he hasn’t bothered to get it fixed, no more after he’d bought a portable fan. Aside from that, he’d rather avoid having to deal with the security guard. Something about his speech makes him queasy and he’s caught him leering at him multiple times. Hoshiumi should’ve gone the extra mile to be discreet with his part-time job, but there’s only one way in and out of the building, and it’s through the security guard’s post at the lobby.

Or two—there are two ways in and out of the building now, through the lobby or the eastside staircase. Three, depending on how one would try to get into the westside’s walled-in and cemented staircase. Hoshiumi starts to think of how things would’ve gone for them if the eastside staircase had been built inside the walls, when he sneezes. His palm prickles as his arm jerks.

“Stay still, Hoshi,” Bokuto reminds, as if he’s not.

Hoshiumi tugs his hand a little as Bokuto’s applying antibiotic, earning him a glare. He glares back. “Thanks,” he says.

Bokuto stares at him, frowning. “I wasn’t expecting that, but you’re welcome.”

They don’t talk until Bokuto’s done dressing the wound and he packs away the kit. Hoshiumi runs a thumb through the rough bandage, loosely recreating the patterns that Bokuto’s fingers had made on them. That’s one new thing he’s learned about his neighbor across the elevator; he’s got healing hands that are as soft as feathers.

“I’ll go back to my place and grab a change of clothes,” Bokuto says, shuffling into his shoes. “I’ll bring over a torchlight and food from the fridge that we can eat.”

“The blackout won’t last long, you know? You don’t have to migrate here.”

“With that thing outside? Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m a logical optimist; we’re safe for now, but our days might be numbered.”

Hoshiumi’s smile feels foreign on his face, stretching out a large area of stiff muscles. “You think so too?”

“Don’t look down on me, Hoshi. I’m a lot smarter than you think.”

When Bokuto closes the door and leaves him alone, Hoshiumi allows himself a few seconds of sitting idly on the floor. Although he’s dripping wet and not exempt from catching a cold, Bokuto had paid no mind to himself to help Hoshiumi get changed and treat his hand. High school Hoshiumi would’ve torn Bokuto’s clothes right off and shouted at him to care for himself more, bleeding hand be damned, but Hoshiumi’s not the same as his younger self. In his last year of high school, on the cusp of graduation, high school Hoshiumi was drastically transformed into present day Hoshiumi, the Hoshiumi Kourai now who has a daytime job as a freelance artist and a part-time job as a call boy.

After however long he’d sat there, Hoshiumi eventually gets up to wipe dry the wet patch Bokuto had left on the floor next to him, then settles back down to lean against the bedframe. He takes out his phone with an empty laugh, impressed at its durability. They’d tried to contact the police after the lady was attacked, but only static pierced through the receiver. Whatever hell’s broken loose that brought out that thing had apparently also interfered with the electromagnetic waves.

Despite knowing that it won’t get through, Hoshiumi dials the jerk anyway. Hirugami Sachiro’s name shines below a picture of him with his dog, beaming like a beacon while the static fills the room as white noise. Hoshiumi throws his phone onto the low table, not bothered to end the call. He doesn’t regret ignoring the message when it came in six hours ago, but he might soon if whatever this is insists on extending its stay. There are still things he has to say to Hirugami, even when he’s still pissed at him, even if he had more than enough time since high school to say them.

Both the static and his racing thoughts collide and combine so viciously that he almost doesn’t hear the door open and Bokuto enter, changed into a clean shirt and lugging two bags over his shoulders. Hoshiumi takes advantage of the dark to shamelessly marvel at how different he looks with his hair fluffy and down.

Bokuto drops one bag on the bed and leans the other carefully against the wall. Upon closer inspection, Hoshiumi sees that the second bag is not a bag, but a guitar case. “What the hell? Are you moving in here?” he frowns.

“It’s better to stick together. You’re injured too.” Bokuto unzips the bag on the bed and pulls out a container, holding it out. “Want some?”

Hoshiumi squints, then shoots him a dirty look when he realizes what it is. “Why the hell do you have a tub of ice cream in winter?”

“Don’t you eat cold stuff in winter?”

“No? What the hell, Bokuto?”

“Okay, calm down. I know it’s cold but there’s no need to summon the devil.”

If they hadn’t first met in the elevator while they’re both rushing to their workplaces, if Bokuto has his hair down more often and got rid of the hair gel and hairsprays, if Hoshiumi isn’t still clinging onto someone who’ll never like him back, maybe this would’ve been the climax of their three-month friendship. It’s not hard to befriend Bokuto, which Hoshiumi realizes is why he’s never had many friends in the first place, and it’s no harder to fall for him. Even in his ludicrous moments, Bokuto Koutarou is an ideal man. Hoshiumi can’t understand how anyone would leave him for anything, really; Bokuto wouldn’t get past that point even while on a good expositional momentum.

“You know, I’ve been wondering since we first met,” Bokuto starts while they alternate their scoops of the ice cream, “you’re really pretty with eyeliner, so why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Hoshiumi would’ve punched him if his left hand isn’t bundled up; he settles for a scowl instead. “What makes you think I’ll have a boyfriend?”

“Because you sleep with guys?”

“Maybe I just like to sleep with guys. I might be romantically straight.”

Bokuto laughs dryly. “I know a gay when I see one. It’s not that hard.”

Hoshiumi opts to elbow his side instead. “Why, because I wear eyeliner?”

“Because I’m gay too.”

Hoshiumi stops. That explains the higher level of intimacy Bokuto’s comfortable with, as most guys tend to keep a distance with their closest friends (which Bokuto had explicitly claimed Hoshiumi to be one). Even Hoshiumi’s clients stay away after the deed is done, and he would’ve taken offense if he doesn’t get good cash from them. It’d confused Hoshiumi at first when Bokuto had promptly invited him over for dinner at his place after learning that they’d both moved in on the same day, but it should’ve been obvious from all his invitations to get cheap drinks at gay bars that Bokuto swings the other way too. Not that going into gay bars for the cheaper drinks equals being a homosexual, but Bokuto’s diligence in keeping up their pretend relationship so that no one would harass Hoshiumi should be a big enough indication that he’s not straight.

Hoshiumi rolls his tongue around in his mouth, tasting sour. He sticks his spoon into the tub and hugs his knees, suddenly insecure. He knows that his neighbors in 608 are probably too deep in their hallucinated world to care about his sexual exploits, but Bokuto in 808 might as well be his close neighbor too, considering the clarity of the sounds floating into each other’s apartments. And while Hoshiumi vehemently refuses to admit it, he does care about what Bokuto thinks of him. He may have moved into this building to avoid unnecessary human contact, but it’s nice to have good company sometimes; which, frankly, Bokuto has been a wonderful one. Hoshiumi would hate to lose him over something he can’t exactly help himself from doing.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I outed you by accident. I just thought you’re not hiding it around me because you knew I was the same.” When Hoshiumi looks up at Bokuto, his expression is apologetic that Hoshiumi feels as if he should feel sorry for himself, until Bokuto shatters the moment and says, “But I was only wondering because you were trying to call someone, and it’s not the first time I’ve seen that name.”

Hoshiumi’s stomach flips. He reaches for his phone, nearly knocking the ice cream tub over in his haste, and stuffs it under his folded legs. “Just an old friend. He left me a message earlier,” he says, which is not a lie, but not the whole truth.

Bokuto nods slowly. He doesn’t seem intent on poking further, though his stare remains long after. “How long do you think it’ll take until the power comes back on? You still have last week’s works to render, and one’s due tomorrow.” He pauses, frowning. “Today. It’s today.”

“Man, you think I care about some measly pretentious artwork now? We damn near died in the first hour of today; if that’s any indication, those pieces will become the size of peas by the end of today.” Hoshiumi groans, throwing his head back against the bedframe. “I’ll just make up for all the cut commissions with my night job. No biggie.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Hoshiumi had been too quick to assume that Bokuto doesn’t care what he does after his flexible 9-to-5, but he should’ve known that jumping to conclusions isn’t exclusive to just one of them. “I’m not trying to invalidate your job or comment on your lifestyle, but aren’t there better alternatives for a second job than being a call boy? Especially for male clients,” Bokuto says.

“Do you have a problem with it?” Hoshiumi snaps defensively.

“Not so much with it than I do with you. I’m worried that they’ll hurt you, Hoshi! You’ve seen how rough the guys from the bar get, and that’s only at the bar—what more in the bedroom.” Bokuto gives up when Hoshiumi angles himself away. “You promise that no one’s hurting you? That they’re treating you right?”

Hoshiumi scoffs. “You make it sound like I have a bunch of sugar daddies.”

“Isn’t that one way to put it— Okay, I’m sorry. Please don’t punch me.”

“Gosh, you’d make such a bad bodyguard.” Hoshiumi’s bandaged fist drops onto his lap. “You _are_ a bad bodyguard. I bet you can’t throw a punch when things escalate in the bar. You’re lucky that you’re ripped as hell. All that smoking and drinking is probably for show.”

The boasting doesn’t come, in contrary to Hoshiumi’s expectation, and he knows he’s crossed a line. Before he could apologize, Bokuto speaks up, “If our days are really numbered, there’s no point keeping secrets, right?”

It didn’t once cross Hoshiumi’s mind that the thing outside isn’t a mere lab experiment that’d escaped and gone rogue, and that there’s something more sinister to its existence and its relation to the apartment’s locked entrance and power cutoff. There’s also the frying of the electromagnetic waves that killed their last hope of getting help, but Hoshiumi doesn’t want to think about them. He’s tired, he’s wounded, and he’s probably going to die before he could tell the truth to Hirugami. The last thing he needs is a heart-to-heart talk with Bokuto. “What, are you looking to redeem your sins?”

Bokuto doesn’t say anything. He watches Hoshiumi quietly, who watches him back with equal heat, then shakes his head. “I’m not planning to die yet, so the secrets can wait,” he says, picking up the ice cream tub. He plucks out Hoshiumi’s spoon and, with one sweep of his, eats the remaining. “I guess now I can eat whatever I want, since calorie consumption is redundant in an apocalypse,” he grins at Hoshiumi, whose face is twisted into that of annoyance.

“Like you cared about your health in the first place.” Hoshiumi snatches the empty container and stomps into the kitchen, dumping it in the sink with a dull clatter. “Idiots,” he mumbles under the rush of the tap water, his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping the counter. “Why do I always attract idiots?”

Thunder cracks as he washes the spoons and container and tosses them onto the drying rack. The dark room lights up at a flash of lightning and Hoshiumi jumps at the sight of his shadow splayed over the cabinets. He doesn’t hear anything, but he could tell that Bokuto snickered. Hoshiumi sighs and dries his hand. It’s fun to entertain the idea of an apocalypse when he’s trying to avoid getting back to work, but it’s not going to fare well with him in the long run. For one, it’d taken him a long time to come to a closure with the fact that he’s not going to live the life he dreamt of in high school and that he’ll most likely spend the rest of his life slaving through work to pay bills, so he’d be pissed if the world were to end abruptly like this. He’d also be pissed because he’d wasted so many years dancing around his feelings for Hirugami and none of them will reach him, but that’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have waited until there’s no time left to tell Hirugami that he wants to be more than just friends.

“Hey, Hoshi, do you think I can open the curtains? It’ll help brighten up room,” Bokuto asks.

Hoshiumi allows, though he doubts much light would enter, what with the power outage and the rain. The sight of the thick blackout curtains pushed aside would certainly uplift their spirits, which is more than enough; it’s the thought that counts.

He hears the slide of the curtain rings, and then, “Hoshi, don’t move.”

That calls for the opposite reaction, naturally, and Hoshiumi looks over his shoulder. “What—” his voice cuts off and he’s frozen in terror. Hoshiumi prefers keeping his curtains drawn shut so he barely knows what goes on beyond them, but he knows whatever he’s seeing has never been out there. A large shadow looms outside the window, floating like a giant balloon. It’s swaying, moving in the air, and it takes a while for Hoshiumi to realize that what’s moving is _on_ it.

“It hasn’t seen us yet,” Bokuto notes as he slowly backs away from the window, towards Hoshiumi. “Bathroom, Hoshi. Get inside.”

Hoshiumi doesn’t think hiding will deescalate the situation, but he’s too shaken up to question Bokuto’s choice. Whether or not it’s the right move, he’s lucky that at least one of them is capable of making decisions in the face of a bulbous ball full of eyes. While they keep an eye on it, they slip inside the bathroom and close the door as silently as they could, leaving enough of a gap to peek through and watch.

As Hoshiumi’s sight adjusts, he could make out the finer details of whatever the hell that is outside his window. Giant eyes cover every inch of the ball, all glassy and bloodshot, with the smallest at least the size of half a door. The pupils dilate and constrict as they wander about the sclera aimlessly and Hoshiumi almost falls against the door when the largest turns to peer into the apartment.

Bokuto grabs him by the shoulder, tugging him closer. “It’s attached to something on the right,” he whispers into Hoshiumi’s ear. “That thing tapers off on the right side.”

It does, which is an information that Hoshiumi doesn’t know what to do with. He doesn’t get to ask what the hell that means because there’s a knock on the door, a single bump that cracks in the silence. They exchange panicked glances and brace for the eyeball to break through the window, but it stills. The largest eye widens and its pupil narrows, and they watch as it falls back and disappears to the right. It leaves behind in its wake the gentle tapping of the rain on the window, followed by a second knock, and then a voice. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

Neither of them reacts, unsure of what to think of this new predicament. At the third knock and louder call, Hoshiumi walks out of the bathroom and makes for the door, but not without Bokuto stopping him. “Are you going to open it?” he asks, holding onto Hoshiumi's uninjured hand.

Hoshiumi shoots him a look. “Of course I am. That’s a _person.”_

“Are you really sure? After what we just saw?”

“Hello? Please answer me if you are!”

There is common sense in Bokuto’s doubt, but there’s no safety in ignoring the very obnoxiously loud person outside the apartment either. Hoshiumi eases Bokuto’s hand off. “Better this than that,” he says with a nod at the window.

Paranoia has really made itself comfortable in Hoshiumi's mind as he hesitantly reaches for the doorknob, heart slamming wildly in his chest. His knees would’ve failed him if he’s not holding onto the door, but seeing the very human being behind it abates his tremors. He stabilizes himself enough to step away from the door.

The very _beautiful_ human beams, a strange expression. The space around him appears to brighten up, an even stranger phenomenon. “Oh, hi! I’m sorry if I woke you up or anything, but I’m actually your neighbor in 108 and I just moved in today,” he says chirpily in a singsong voice, too jarring for Hoshiumi’s current communicative abilities. “I was wondering about the blackout but I didn’t know who to ask since it’s already this late, and then I saw someone walk into your apartment. Or is it his?” He stops. His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth falls open. “I’m definitely disturbing something, aren’t I?”

“You said you just moved in today?” Bokuto’s voice booms behind Hoshiumi and the door is wrenched wide open. He places his other hand on the door frame and leans forward, making himself seem bigger behind Hoshiumi. A classic protective stance which Bokuto’s adopted since they started facing troubles in bars. “I’ve never seen you around.”

108’s eyes alternate between Hoshiumi and Bokuto. “Um, yes. I didn’t get the chance to look around earlier because my work shift got extended. I’m Oikawa Tooru.” He holds out a hand, grinning at them.

Of course Bokuto’s not going to take it—he’s playing the role of an intimidating boyfriend—so Hoshiumi does. “Hoshiumi Kourai. This is my friend from 808, Bokuto Koutarou.” Oikawa’s still eyeing them with a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes, disconcerting Hoshiumi. It’s hard to tell with how dark it is, but he fears that those are the same eyes as the one they’d seen, even though it’s impossible for a number of reasons. He swallows and composes himself. “The blackout happens often, mostly at night, but the power will always come back after a while. Were you not told of it?”

“Oh, no. I have a friend who used to live in 108 and he said I could take over since he’s moving out. He must’ve forgotten to tell me about this.” Oikawa laughs, a melodious titter. “Iwa-chan can be forgetful sometimes.”

Bokuto’s hand on the door drops to Hoshiumi’s on the doorknob, squeezing lightly over the bandages. “Is that so? I feel kind of sorry that you have to learn it the hard way,” Bokuto plays along amiably. “It’s too bad that we have to meet like this. We’re about to head to sleep, you see.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen and Hoshiumi flinches at them. “I’m so sorry! I’ll head back to my apartment. Thank you for telling me about the blackout.” With a doublehanded wave, Oikawa wishes them goodnight and heads for 108.

Bokuto’s hand is still over Hoshiumi’s after they close the door, but the latter pulls away as he turns around with a grimace. “Do you think we can really sleep?” he asks.

“Honestly? I’d rather stay up and watch out for that ball sack.”

A part of Hoshiumi cries while he laughs outwardly. “So, should we?”

Bokuto shakes his head, slouching against the wall. If his hair is up, it would deflate. “No. We need to rest. We have a death to come to terms with and we might be down with a fever—the world wouldn’t be so cruel to subject us to anything more.”

“Ah right, that woman just died in front of us…” Hoshiumi sighs. With all the stuff that’s occurred, the woman’s death felt like it’d happened ages ago.

“Hey, Hoshi, what do we do with her?”

Hoshiumi pats Bokuto’s shoulder as he passes by. “She’ll be dealt with accordingly tomorrow. We’ll just get ourselves killed like her if we tried to do something,” he answers. “The lines are down anyway, so we can’t call the emergency hotlines.”

“Still…”

“Come on, let’s sleep the fatigue away. We have more things on our plate, like you said.” Hoshiumi draws the curtains shut and immediately feels better, though at the cost of enveloping the room in total darkness once again. Bokuto hasn’t moved when he checks over his shoulder, still leaning on the wall but facing him now. “What, don’t tell me that you’re bothered with sleeping next to me? Or is it my ignorance that’s disgusted you?”

“No, I’m just surprised that you’re not kicking me out.”

Hoshiumi sighs. “I’m surprised too, but after all that, I’m not looking forward to be alone, especially not in this darkness.”

“Me neither. As much as I don’t like leaving you alone, I don’t like to be alone myself too.” They stare at each other in the dark, unmoving, aware of the wane in each other’s energy levels. “Do you know the person living in 108, Hoshi?”

“No. Do you?”

Bokuto nods and walks over, sitting on the bed. “Yeah. I’ve met the guy a couple of times in the mini market. He’s an athletic trainer for the national volleyball team.” He nods again when Hoshiumi makes a sound of amazement. “Iwaizumi Hajime… I’d consider us pretty good friends, since we’ve gone out for drinks a few times. That doesn’t mean he’s obligated to tell me everything, but… he’s never mentioned about moving out.”

Hoshiumi hums as he divides the pillows and spreads out the blanket. “Maybe he doesn’t know how to break it to you yet. Like Oikawa, you had to learn it the hard way.”

“I guess so.” With a groan, Bokuto flops down on the bed with his arms spread. He looks up at the upside-down Hoshiumi, who’s scowling at him. “You know, Hoshi, we can cuddle too, if you want. It’ll help insulate us both faster and— I call dibs on the outer side.”

“Good. Know your place.”

They don’t immediately fall asleep—Bokuto rolls over to face Hoshiumi after no less than three minutes of lying down and asks, “Do you think that thing outside is a monster?”

Hoshiumi exhales loudly. “Man, Bokuto, can we not have this conversation? Or any at all, preferably.”

“But… do you think it’s a monster? Like, maybe not Godzilla or Siri type of monster, maybe a human type of monster.”

“You mean a ‘mutation’?”

“Yeah! Do you think it’s that?”

Hoshiumi opens his eyes and squints in the dark, not sure for what, but it helps to arrange his thoughts. With Bokuto’s suggestion of what to refer it as, he can’t think of anything better, so he agrees. “Yeah, it’s probably a monster. A mutated human who likes to drink, maybe.”

“Because he’s sucking out blood from the woman?”

“The monster has a gender now?”

“I think that’s more of a vampire than a monster, but vampires _are_ monsters… right?”

Hoshiumi sighs. Bokuto has the body of a man and the mind of a child, and Hoshiumi’s never been good when it comes to dealing with either. “Vampires suck from the neck, not the back. They also don’t have… that long elephant nose thing,” he explains exasperatedly.

Bokuto wriggles to lie on his back, shaking the bed. He doesn’t sense Hoshiumi’s growing annoyance at him. “What about the ball sack? It’s much more real than the vampire because we actually saw it, and it’s attached to something on the right.” He pauses. “What’s on the right, Hoshi?”

“I don’t know, my neighbors? The drug addicts living in 608.”

“… I see.”

The drawl in the vowels unsettles Hoshiumi, but he’s too tired to ask for elaboration. Hoshiumi turns so his back would face Bokuto, so the latter wouldn’t see his uneasy expression. “Goodnight, Bokuto,” he says, cutting off the conversation before it could continue, though it's futile.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we’re also monsters? I mean, I don’t know how that would work, like, what are the requirements to start mutating? But, what if?”

Hoshiumi’s given up trying to stop Bokuto. At least he has a pleasantly soft voice, which doesn’t make it feel as bad. “What kind of monster would you be, then?” he asks in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Maybe something like the vampire.”

“Because you like to drink?”

“Yeah. And I think you’d be a bird type of monster, the kind that we always see here and there.”

A scoff escapes Hoshiumi’s lips at that. “Why? Because I’m small?”

“Because you desire freedom.” The bed shakes slightly as nothing else comes from Bokuto. “Goodnight, Hoshi.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've got art on my [insta](https://www.instagram.com/tender_sushijima/). Not great amazing art, but like, it's to give you a clearer image of how they look. I suck at describing, and I get so nervous when I read them cause I can picture the whole scene in my head; I just don't know if it's the same for those reading for the first time.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this. I love Sweet Home. And Kingdom. But I'm probably not going to write something for Kingdom, cause it's going to be even more complicated, given the plot and setting.
> 
> Though... who knows? I might be motivated enough to pump out something like this for the Korean historical zombie politics story ╮(︶▽︶)╭


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